


eden set afire

by plagues_and_pansies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Black Hermione Granger, F/M, Indian Harry Potter, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parselmouth Harry Potter, Post Series, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21798964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plagues_and_pansies/pseuds/plagues_and_pansies
Summary: Remus hands Harry’s godfather a copy of the Daily Prophet dated three days previous. The headline reads MALFOY HEIR MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD. Under the bold title is a recent picture of Draco Malfoy, hair slicked back from his pointed face. He stares out from the paper, occasionally looking away. Even through the black and white of the photo, Harry can make out the deep bags under his eyes, and the tightness of his jaw
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 7
Kudos: 57





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [survival is a talent](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12006417) by [ShanaStoryteller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShanaStoryteller/pseuds/ShanaStoryteller). 
  * Inspired by [Way Down We Go](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18591952) by [xiaq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xiaq/pseuds/xiaq). 



The hottest day of the summer so far was drawing to a close and a drowsy silence lay over the large, square houses of Privet Drive. Harry had been returned to the Dursley’s like every previous summer between school terms, head still reeling from the events that wrapped up the TriWizard Tournament: Cedric Diggory’s near death experience, Barty Crouch Jr.’s reveal from under his shroud as Mad-Eye Moody, and the panicked battle in the graveyard with a newly returned Voldemort were things he had yet been able to process. Add to that half a month of unreturned letters from his friends and godfather, and Harry was leaping head first into a new stage of madness. 

Pushing himself up from where he had been kneeling in Aunt Petunia’s garden - the weeding kept him out from under her sharp eye and tongue as well as gave him something to do - he toes the back door open and steps into the kitchen to wash his hands before he spreads dirt in the house and gives his aunt another reason to fuss. He can hear the TV in the living room, and can vaguely make out Uncle Vernon’s disapproving comments about the state of the world, but all of that is pushed to the back when a knock sounds at the door. 

It’s a Saturday, and too late for dinner guests, and Dudley has his own key to the house, so Harry can’t imagine who would be knocking on the front door. Uncle Vernon doesn’t have a clue either if the continued disgruntled muttering is any clue, and Harry manages to peek an eye through the kitchen door right as his uncle takes a moment to adjust his sweater and dust off his slacks. Vernon opens the door, and around his large frame, Harry is treated to the faces of two of his favorite people.

“Remus!” he says, stepping out of the kitchen. “Professor McGonagall!”

Vernon blusters.

“Are you some of _them_?” he asks. “I won’t have your kind showing up at my house!"

“I’m afraid this is an urgent matter, Mr. Dursley,” McGonagall says. “And one best discussed inside.” When he hesitates, she continues, “Of course I’m more than happy to speak of the magical community right here on your doorstep.”

Uncle Vernon turns red in the face, and quickly ushers the two visitors inside. Remus looks better than the last time he’d seen him; he’s put weight on his skinny frame, and his robes are of a more updated style, nearly muggle in their appearance. McGonagall is wearing a green set of robes more casual than what she teaches in, but no less than what he’s sure is her best. 

“What do you want? What are you doing here?” Vernon demands. 

“Vernon?” Petunia calls. “What’s going on? Who is it?”

Before he can answer Petunia sticks her horse-like face out of the living room, sees the two visitors, and physically recoils. 

“Well?” Vernon says. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“Mr. Dursley, I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This is my college, Remus Lupin.”

Vernon’s face turns a rather lovely shade of plum.

“We’re her to speak to you, your wife, and Mr. Potter about his living arrangements for the summer.”

Harry feels hope bloom in his chest. They’re here to take me back, he thinks, I don’t have to stay. Quickly, he schools his face into neutrality; if the Dursleys know he wants to leave they might not let him.

“The boy just got back and now you want to take him again?” Vernon asks suspiciously. “Are you going to keep him?”

“Perhaps the sitting room would be more appropriate for this conversation. Remus, please help Harry pack his things. We can’t stay long.”

“Now, see here!” Vernon protests. “I haven’t said he can leave, and I won’t have you marching into my home whisking him away all willy-nilly! The boy has chores!”

Harry looks to Remus, who nods to the stairs. While the Dursleys are focused on yelling at Professor McGonagall, he and the older man creep around to the back stairs and up to his room. He lingers on the bottom step just long enough to hear the witch downstairs say,

“Mr. Dursley, understand me now. We can have a civil conversation, but there is no doubt that Mr. Potter is leaving here with us this evening.”

As soon as the door to his bedroom is closed, Harry doesn’t hesitate in throwing himself at Remus, who hugs him tightly for a long moment. 

“What’s going on?” Harry asks. “Why are you here? Why am I leaving?”

“I’m afraid we don’t have time for an explanation right this minute,” he says. “Let’s gather your things. The sooner we can leave the better.”

“How is everyone?” he asks instead. “I haven’t been getting any letters.”

“Yes, I’m afraid that’s mine and Sirius’s fault,” Remus admits. “There are things going on that cannot be discussed in letters, things that could put yourself and the Dursleys in danger. I’m sorry for it, but we felt it was necessary. Now, hurry, where’s your trunk?”

Between the two of them, they make short work of packing his clothes and school books; Harry releases Hedwig and sends her to the Burrow upon Remus’s request. With a wave of his wand, Remus shrinks Harry’s trunk and hands it to the boy, who stashes it in his pocket. 

“We really must get you clothing that fits,” the man comments as he and Harry exit his bedroom. 

Professor McGonagall is standing at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for them; the Dursleys seem to have retreated to the living room. 

“All settled?” Remus asks.

“We came to an agreement,” she says, tone suggesting it hadn’t been a harmonious one. 

“Too bad your muggles aren’t more agreeable,” Remus says. “Nothing we can do. Are we ready?”

McGonagall nods, and leads their party out the front door. Harry follows closely, keeping an eye out for any neighbors that might be peeking through their windows. Half a block down the street they come to the neighborhood park, eerily empty as the sun had set close to an hour ago.

“This should do,” McGonagall says.

Both adults go to pull something from their pockets; Remus a slip of paper, and the professor a pocket watch and chain.

“Here you are, Harry,” Remus says, handing him the paper.

Bold slashing letters proclaim: _The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London._

“What’s the Ord - ” 

“Not here, if you please, Mr. Potter,” McGongall says. “If we’re ready.”

Remus takes hold of the watch chain, and holds the end of it out for Harry.

“Is this a portkey?” he asks suspiciously.

“Very good, Mr. Potter.”

“I hate portkeys,” he grumbles, but takes the end of the chain.

Professor McGonagall speaks a word Harry doesn’t know, and he feels the unpleasant tugging behind his navel as the three of them leave Surrey behind.

***

When Harry can stand straight without thinking he might puke, he finds the three of them on a dark unfamiliar street corner. Townhouses line the lane, most alight with light and sound. Remus leads them down the sidewalk until they stand in between the doors of numbers eleven and thirteen. Harry’s brow wrinkles.

“There isn’t a twelve,” he says.

“Think about the paper I gave you,” Remus says. “Hold what it said in your mind.”

Harry does, calling the address and bold handwriting to the front of his mind. As if on cue, a battered door appears between numbers eleven and thirteen, followed swiftly by dirty walls and grimy windows. He gapes. It was as if an extra house had simply pushed its way between the muggle residences on either side.

“Quickly,” McGonagall says, ushering Harry and Remus to the door. 

The black paint is chipped and scarred, though the silver door knocker shines bright. Remus takes out his wand and taps the door, and several loud clicks and thuds followed by what might have been a chain sliding away can be heard behind it.

“Inside, Harry,” Remus says, “but don’t touch anything.”

He steps into the near complete darkness of the hall, and his two traveling companions join him. The door shuts behind them with a solid thud, and the locks click back into place. One by one, sconces lining the hall come to life. It smells of dampness and a sweet, rotting scent that could be mold or something more sinister. The wallpaper is peeling, and the carpet is threadbare. 

Before Harry’s eyes can adjust to the low light, a dark silhouette appears at the end of the hall.

“You made it!” a quiet voice says.

Harry lights up. “Sirius!”

Several voices shush him, but he pays them no mind, sprinting down the hall to throw himself at his godfather. Sirius stoops down to hug him, arms circling his ribs until their ache. His godfather has also put weight on, his frame less skeletal that before, though by no means have his features rounded. 

“Can’t be too loud in the hall,” Sirius says. “Let’s move to the kitchen.”

Harry nods, and follows the older man down the hall and through a closed door. It’s a little like stepping into a different house; the kitchen is bright, suspended lumos charms hovering around the ceiling, with large clean windows and a sparkling porcelain sink. And it isn’t empty. Around the table sits Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Ron, Fred, George, Ginny, Percy, and Hermione.

“Harry!” Ron says when he appears in the door. His best friend throws himself from the table, shortly followed by Herminone, then everyone else. 

Ron, who seems to have grown at least another two inches just from the time they left Hogwarts, lets him go quickly so the others can hug him as well.

“Harry, it’s so lovely to see you, dear,” Mrs. Weasly says, laying a kiss on the top of his head. 

“Harry, my boy,” Mr. Weasley greets, offering his hand. 

After everyone has said hello and returned to their seats, Harry joining them in a seat next to Ron, Sirius asks,

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” Harry admits, and it isn’t a full minute later that a bowl of thick stew is being set in front of him.

Remus and McGonagall move to join the company at the table, and Sirius offers them each a cup of tea.

“How were the muggles?” Ron asks.

“Terrible, like always,” he admits. 

“It’s a shame you have to keep going back,” Fred says, and George nods in agreement.

“So what’s going on? Why did Remus and Professor McGonagall come get me? I was supposed to stay until the end of August.”

The faces at the table grow somber. They glance at each other and at the table, but none of them can seem to look him in the eye for a moment. 

“Something has happened,” Sirius says, sitting down on Harry’s vacant side with a cup of tea in his hand. “Remus, hand me the paper, please.”

Remus hands Harry’s godfather a copy of the Daily Prophet dated three days previous. The headline reads MALFOY HEIR MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD. Under the bold title is a recent picture of Draco Malfoy, hair slicked back from his pointed face. He stares out from the paper, occasionally looking away. Even through the black and white of the photo, Harry can make out the deep bags under his eyes, and the tightness of his jaw. The article still further down describes that Malfoy went missing three weeks previous, and that almost all efforts to find him have been exhausted. 

“With the return of You-Know-Who, we don’t think this is random,” Sirius says. “The Malfoys were staunch supporters in the last war, and if something really has happened to the boy, then no one is safe. Least of all you, with only muggles as a buffer between you and anyone who means you harm.”

“But how could Malfoy go missing?” Harry asks. “What happened?”

“His mother said he’d gone to Diagon Alley, and then never returned home,” Hermione says. “They’ve used every tracking charm they can think of, and hired a private investigator when that didn’t work.”

“They even hired a diviner,” Percy says, and from the shocked looks around the table it seems to be news to everyone else as well. He sighs. “You hear things, working for the Ministry.”

“Diviners aren’t cheap,” Mr. Weasley says, “not that the Malfoys would have trouble coming up with the gold.”

“What’s a diviner?” Harry asks.

“It’s a witch or wizard that specializes in finding things,” Herminone says. “It’s a very specialized school of magic, and because it’s so difficult to master, there just aren’t many people who bother with it.They focus on finding magical signatures.”

“Bill works with one,” George says.

Fred nods. “She says if a diviner can’t find something, it can’t be found at all.”

“Our worry,” Sirius says, “is that Draco Malfoy might be the first casualty in a new war.”

  
  



	2. all your yesterdays are not so far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Candlenights, Merry Christmas, Glorious Yule, Joyous Kwanzaa, and Happy Hanukkah to everyone!

Neville is tired, there’s no way around that. He’d toss back a dose of pepper-up potion, but he’s been pretty much living off of it for the last week, and he has no desire to go into his next appointment coughing smoke. For the last six days he’s been up with the moon collecting wild dittany on the Abbott estates outside Kettering for a very particular customer, and now, for the same difficult man, he’s about to take a portkey to America - a place called Ruby Valley in Nevada, to be exact. 

He’s been in the waiting room of the International Portkey Office in the Ministry for an hour and a half - forty-five minutes past his scheduled departure time - when they finally call his name. He checks his bag for his dragon hide gloves, and steps forward to take his portkey. A weary looking witch behind the counter confirms his return time, stamps an illegible smudge of red ink onto a form, and offers him a sock. 

“Your travel word is ‘dirigible’, and will only work within an hour of your reported return time. Do you understand?” she says monotonously.

“Yes, thank you.”

Neville steps away from the counter, and into a roped off portion of the waiting room. He holds the sock in his hand, takes a deep breath, and is whisked away from the MInistry.

***

Even running almost an hour behind, Neville still arrives before Black & Co. Greenhouses opens to the public. The nursery is more than eight square kilometers, and borders the end of the Franklin Lake Wildlife Management Area. If their reputation is true, they keep the more dangerous things in the state park where they can be closely managed by herbologists disguised as park rangers who can dissuade any muggles that have managed to get around the wards. 

The front of the compound is full of mundane plants, open to non-magical folk as well, but that isn’t where he’s meant to be. His portkey drops him off in what looks to be an unused office. There’s a couch, short table, and a sign on the door that reads: _Arriving Portkey Transfers Please Ring Bell. Do Not Leave Unescorted_. Below it is a doorbell, and he dutifully rings it. 

He waits just long enough to consider sitting down when the door swings open, and a harried looking woman appears. Her hair is out of sorts, and her apron is singed, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it. In fact, she doesn’t seem to notice.

“What can I do you for?” she asks.

“I’m Neville Longbottom,” he says. “I have an appointment to pick up some valerian.”

“Follow me,” she says. “I’ll have to check the orders in the front office.”

She waves him along behind her, and he steps out of the room he arrived in and directly into a greenhouse three stories tall. There are clouds inside the glass, some producing a small storm in the far corner that makes the air heavy with moisture; others are stationary, providing permanent shade to an arrangement of flowers. 

“How do you keep the weather magic from gathering together, and condensing into a single system?” he asks.

“Don’t ask me, bud,” she says. “I’m shit with charms. That’s all Mr. Black. He did most of them himself after consulting with a friend. He takes them down and redoes them every six months or so to make sure nothing’s hinky.”

“That seems like a lot of trouble to go to.”

“We raise plants from all seven continents,” she says. “We’d go out of business if we couldn’t keep them alive.”

Neville stops. “You have white clover from Antartica?”

“Sure do,” she says without looking behind her.

He joggs to catch up.

“How did you get it?”

“Mr. Black went and got it himself. We’ve been breeding from the samples he brought back for about five years now.”

Whoever this Mr. Black may be, Neville is curious and impressed. His name has only recently been making the rounds in Europe, but it seems as if he’s been in business long enough to really cement that he knows what he’s doing. They exit the greenhouse into the dry Nevada air, and it’s a bit like walking into a cloud of dust. When he looks behind them, the greenhouse seems to be a single story structure that could maybe hold a car. It’s flagged by two more, and two more; he counts a total of seven lined in a neat row. 

The woman - who’s name it’s far too late to ask for - leads him through an open plot of trees, the Nevada sun hot on the back of his neck even so early in the morning. What he assumes is the front office comes into view quickly, a long single story building with large windows. The back door has a sign that reads ‘Employees Only’, and the woman holds it open for him to step through. 

She leads him around several corners before coming to an abrupt halt at a desk staffed by another woman, this one much older than either of them. She has silver hair, large ears, and is wearing stained work clothes. Some of the papers on her desk are sorting themselves, a few whisking off to other locations down the hall. 

“Good morning, Desma. Do you have an order for Neville Longbottom?”

“Good morning, Bethany. I do.” She waves her hand and a piece of paper plucks itself from the shuffling. “Longbottom, Neville. Half a pound of dried valerian.”

“I’m sorry,” Neville interrupts. “It’s supposed to be two live plants, not dried flowers.”

Desma glances at Bethany then back at Neville. “I see. I’m sorry for the misunderstanding, but in order to correct it you’ll have to speak to Mr. Black. He’s very, uh, particular about who buys his live plants.”

Bethany snorts. “That’s one way to put it. Do you know where Mr. Black is this morning?”

“Tippy!” Desma calls, rapping on her desk twice.

With a loud crack, a house elf dressed in an ink-stained apron, dragon hide gloves, and goggles appears.

“Yes, Mrs. Desma?” it asks in a squeaky voice.

“Do you know where Mr. Black is this morning?”

“Greenhouse Twelve, Mrs. Desma. He be seeing after the seedlings.”

“Thank you, Tippy. Let me know if you need help with the shrivelfig.”

“You is welcome, Mrs. Desma, but the little nasties is no match for Tippy.”

With another crack, Tippy disappears, leaving just the three humans by themselves.

“I can take him by Twelve,” Bethany says. “It’ll give me a chance to swing by the pond and check on the lilies.”

Desma nods. “Sorry, again for the mix up, Mr. Longbottom. You should have been told when you placed your order that we don’t normally sell live plants.”

“Is there a reason?” he asks, curious more than anything.

“Mr. Black is just very fond of his plants,” Bethany says. “The non-magical things he’ll let go of quick enough, but…” She shrugs.

Neville shrugs in return. He’s known many an odd herbologist; Mr. Black doesn’t even really register.

Bethany leads him back out of the front office, and towards the greenhouse he appeared in, though at the last minute they take a left though a plot of juvenile wolfsbane until they come to what looks like a shack barely held together. Bethany knocks then opens the door, and Neville is treated to the best sight yet. 

Concealed in the shack is a workroom larger than the apartment he keeps in Diagon Alley. Neatly arranged workbenches line three of the walls, and make up an island in the center of the room. On the fourth wall is a slightly raised garden bed. It’s about the height of his knee, and the soil looks damp and freshly turned. There are several rows of small springs of a plants Neville can’t identify, but that’s not the most interesting thing about it. 

Kneeling in front of the bed is a man. He doesn’t look up when the door opens, hands sunk into the soil before him. He has short, wavy hair that’s so blonde it might as well be white, and slightly tanned skin, though Neville can’t see much more than dirty elbows and the back of his neck. He’s wearing muggle clothing, a dark shirt and grimy jeans; his feet are bare and dirty. 

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Black,” Bethany says. “I’ve got someone who needs to speak to you about purchasing a couple valerian plants.”

The face that turns to look at them is pink at the cheeks as if a little sunburnt. It has sharp cheekbones, a square-ish jaw, and an aristocratic nose. Pale blue eyes stare up at them, white hair falling to the sides. It is unmistakably a familiar face.

“Draco?” he asks, no short amount of awe in his voice.

Neville is far too astonished to catch Bethany looking between the two of them before slowly backing out the door. 

“I’ll be at the pond if you need me,” Neville doesn’t hear her say.

“Hello, Neville,” the ghost of Draco Malfoy says.

He stands to his feet, pulling his hands from the garden bed and brushing them off of his jeans. He pushes his hair out of his face, and knocks on the worktable next to him.

A house elf appears, a different one, with extra large ears.

“Good morning, Mr. Black,” it says in a threadbare voice.

“Good morning, Pip. Would you mind bringing out a pot of tea?”

“Of course, Mr. Black.”

“And please let the office know I’m indisposed for the moment.”

***

Neville watches in stunned silence as Draco summons a table and chairs, then turns to wash his hands at the sink in the corner. Pip the house elf doesn’t return, but a pot of tea and two mugs appear on the table. Draco sits and pours the tea, looking at Neville expectantly, but the Gryffindor can’t do anything but stand and stare.

“I don’t understand,” he finally chokes out. “You went missing. You died!”

Draco shrugs, something he never would have done when they were fifteen. He sips his tea without waiting for it to cool. 

A thought occurs to him. “You _are_ Draco Malfoy, right?” he asks.

“I’ve been Draco Black for the last eight years, but, yes.”

Neville doesn’t sit so much as collapse into the chair summoned, eyes glued to Draco’s face. 

“I don’t understand,” he says again.

“What is there to misunderstand?” Draco asks. “The magical world was going to war again, and I wanted no part of it.”

“Your parents searched for you!” Nevillie all but screeches. “People looked for you! And you’ve been hiding out here all this time? You’re mother still puts out ads in the Prophet on the anniversary of the day you went missing!”

Draco doesn’t seem bothered by the raised voice, and Neville does his best to calm down. He takes a deep breath.

“I know,” Draco says calmly.

“You know.”

“I know. America isn’t an insulated community. I do sometimes get news from England.”

“So you know. You know your mother misses you, that people looked for you, and you still decided to play dead all this time? Why? Why did you leave? Why America? Why didn’t you come back after the war was over?”

Draco continues to sip at his tea without answering, and Neville follows suit. Finally, when they’ve all but emptied the pot in silence, he asks,

“What happened?”

“Plenty of things,” Draco says.

It’s a very short answer for what he’s sure is a very long story.

***

An hour later, Neville has no more information than when he arrived, though Draco does ask Desma in the front office to add a note to his file that he can purchase live plants at any time so long as they aren’t insular to the running of the greenhouse. The woman seems very impressed by that. 

It’s Draco that leads him back to the portkey office, carrying one of the two plants he’s purchased. The walk is quiet, Draco no more willing to answer any of his questions than he had the hour they’ve been together. When they reach the office, Draco hands him the second plant, and shoves his hands into his pockets.

“It’s good to see you, Neville.”

He manages to choke out a “You, too.” before Draco disappears through the door,and he’s left wondering if the whole morning has been a hallucination brought on by sleeplessness.

***

Two days of staring distractedly at the valerian and not telling anyone about finding Draco Black nee Malfoy alive finally drives his shop assistant into saying something.

“Are those things cursed?” April Carriage, a Hufflepuff sixth year demands. 

She’s taken over the summer position from his last helper, a Gryffindor named Opal.

“What?”

“The valerian,” she says. “Is it cursed? Did the portkey to America rattle your brain? What is it? You’ve been acting right strange since you got back.”

“No, I haven’t,” he says.

“You put the juvenile Devil’s Snare with nettles,” she says, hands on her hips.

He spins around, knowing the snare might try to strangle the nettles, and he just got them to start taking root in a new pot.

“Relax,” April says. “I already moved it. Now, what in the bloody hell is bothering you?” 

“It’s nothing,” he says, but the teen scoffs.

“Yeah, nothing. I’d put money on it, Neville.”

“It isn’t something you should worry about,” he says instead of answering her outright.

“So, it is _something_.”

He wavers, and makes a decision.

“Make sure you lock the door when you close up,” he dodges again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Neville!” she calls, but he’s already left his small shop. 

He moves through the midday crowd with practiced ease, arriving at Gringotts after only a ten minute walk. He steps through the large doors, then to the left through an archway to arrive in a room full of ten fireplaces, all connected to the floo network. He pays his sickle, grabs a pinch of floo powder, and steps to an empty fireplace. He tosses the powder in, lets the flames turn their sickly green color, and calls out “Ministry of Magic”. He steps in.

***

The Auror office is on the second level of the Ministry along with the rest of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Neville’s never been there, but the signs are easy enough to follow, and he must look some kind of urgent because no one stops him on his way. The Auror’s office is a little smaller than he’d imagined, with dozens of desks pushed together to form small islands all over the room. He stands in the doorway looking for one particular person when someone says behind him,

“Neville? You okay, mate?”

He turns to find Ron Weasley, just the Auror he was looking for. 

“Ron!”

“Neville!”

“Do you have a minute?” he asks. “It’s urgent.”

“Of course. Is this business, or…”

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I should probably talk to you, and Harry, and Hermione all at once.”

Ron’s eyebrow shoot up.

“Are you in some kind of trouble?” he asks.

“What? No!”

“Okay, okay,” Ron says, holding his hands up to surrender. He checks his watch. “We can head over up to level five. It’s about time for Hermione to take a break.”

“I thought she was working in law enforcement,” Neville says.

“No, she moved up to the Office of Law,” Ron says.

“Okay, what about Harry?”

Ron gives him a funny look.

“Neville, Harry hasn’t worked for the Ministry for eight months.”

“What? When did this happen?”

“He decided he didn’t want to be an Auror,” Ron shrugs. “Are you alright? You’ve seen us all since this happened. I swear we told you.”

“No,” he says, rubbing at his face. “Things are not alright.”

“C’mon, mate. We’ll go see Hermione, and floo Harry in.”

Neville nods, and follows behind. 

***

Hermione hugs both him and Ron when they step into her office. 

“Neville, it’s been too long,” she says. 

“We saw each other last week,” he says.

“Yes,” she admits, “but I’ve gone through three centuries worth of blood purity laws and traditions since then. Which is too much.”

He grimaces; laws and such aren’t his specialty even when they have to do with herbology and plant trading, but Hermione seems to be thriving no matter where they assign her. She motions for them to sit, but Ron shakes his head.

“Neville says we need Harry, too. I’ll be right back.”

With a distinct pop, the sight of Ron twists and disappears.

“I thought you couldn’t apparate in the Ministry,” Neville says.

“Aurors are given special permission,” Hermione says. “The trick will be convincing Harry to side-along back.”

For about ten minutes, Neville and Hermione make small talk about how his business is doing, and what she’s working on.

“It’s all about the technicality,” Hermione fusses. “One small loophole in the way a law is worded and purebloods can get away with almost anything.”

Neville shrugs; she isn’t telling him anything he wasn’t raised knowing. One pop followed closely by another, and Harry and Ron appear back in the office.

“But you didn’t side-along,” Hermione says, eyebrows drawn together.

“They never revoked my permissions,” Harry shrugs. “Neville.”

“That’s all kinds of a security hazard,” she says as Neville shakes Harry’s hand.

“Ron says you needed to talk to us.”

Neville takes a deep breath, and sits back down.

 _They’re going to think I’m crazy,_ he thinks.

“I found Draco Malfoy,” he finally says. “Alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to post this chapter early for the holidays. I plan to keep to a regular schedule of posting the second Saturday of every month, but please don't hold it against me if I fail.


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